


Radio Ga Ga

by SummerdaySands (IvyMcAllister)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm going to play with this toy until it breaks.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/SummerdaySands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Jim and Blair meet under just slightly different circumstances.  (Jim's still a cop, Blair's still an Anthro grad student, and all's well in Cascade, so it's not *that* different.)</p><p>This was a dues fic for a mailing list I was on about 100 years ago.  (Well, it *feels* like 100 years.)  I wasn't exactly thrilled with it then, but it's a quick H/C fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Ga Ga

Detective Jim Ellison had been on his feet for almost 6 hours. As the last participants in Cascade's 4th of July parade finally disappeared down Center Street, the din of cymbals and tubas and screams faded a bit as the crowd began to follow or disperse. Standing there in the still glittering, tattered remains of the day's festivities, it really hit Jim just how much he was hurting. He'd been too busy to notice before, but the ringing in his ears and a pounding headache were combining to make him irritable, nauseous, and dizzy. 

A burst of crackling static from his earpiece made him wince. Simon's voice booming at him about getting, "the hell home, already," wasn't exactly soothing, either. 

"Okay, Simon." Jim sighed. "I'm outta here as soon as I find a uniform to supervise the clean-up. Over."

"Alright, then. Get some rest tomorrow, Jim. You look like shit."

"Gee, thanks a lot, oh captain, my captain. I'll see you on Monday." 

Jim knew Simon was right. He *had* been feeling shitty lately, and it was only getting worse as the weeks wore on. It was really starting to show, in both his appearance and his personality. Jim was far from Mr. Sociable to start with, but lately he'd been an absolute ogre. Simon couldn't get anyone to work with him except the notoriously even-tempered Joel Taggart. The former Bomb Squad Captain's good nature came from years of dangerous work in high-pressure situations. Jim had to admit, he hated having to partner with ANYone, but Joel was certainly the lesser of the evils. 

Jim made his way down an alleyway, avoiding the iridescent, oil-slicked puddles of last night's rain and climbed into his truck. His head was really throbbing, but the ringing was receding and it was starting to seem more like a light-sensitivity issue than a problem with sound. He settled himself in the driver's seat and dug in the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses. Despite the faintly grey day, they really seemed to help. 

He reached for the radio next, fiddling idly with the presets as edged through the holiday weekend traffic. Finding nothing he wanted to listen to on his usual stations, Jim pressed the scan button, half-listening as a series of disconnected sounds filled the cab. 

". . . in other news today, it seems that Asian busin. . . . . .wonder, still I wonder, who'll stop the rain. . . . . .ow Jones Industrial average at 7.43%. . . . . .anna *bleep* you like an animal. . . . . .Rainier University Radio, WRUR. I'm Blair S. . . . . .and the Lord said unto them, 'Behol. . .'"

Before Jim even realized he'd reached for it, he'd hit the seek-down button, searching for the local college station he'd heard a second before. And there it was. God. Jim fought the ridiculous urge to pull over and just listen to the DJ's animated, compelling voice.

". . .World Music. As some of you who've had classes with me before may already know, I spent a few months in South America, in Peru, living with the Chopec. I was allowed to record some of their traditional songs before I left, and this is an incredible piece of ceremonial chant that really reminds me of Tunisian throat singing in tone and quality, but. . ."

As the familiar rhythm thrummed gently from the speakers, Jim shook his head a bit at the strangeness of it. He'd lived with the Chopec for several months after his unit's plane had crashed in the Peruvian mountains. All the men in his unit had been killed, but for a reason Jim could never understand, he had survived. The Chopec had taken him in, nursed him back to health and accepted him into their tribe with no reservations. Incacha, their shaman, had taken special interest in Jim's welfare. He'd been all that stood between Jim and a serious breakdown when The Weird Stuff had started happening with Jim's senses. 

Jim focused on the radio again. The DJ was on a roll, now, speaking animatedly and enthusiastically about something he obviously found fascinating. Eyes widening, Jim started at the unbelievable words. ". . .dissertation subject is Sentinels--individuals with five heightened senses. While there are many documented cases where people have one or two of their senses heightened, a true Sentinel has all five jacked up to superhuman levels. I believe that they can learn to control these senses, but only with the help of a specific helper--a Guide, really--who can ground and center the Sentinel when they're over-stimulated. But hey, enough about my hobbies, guys. This next song is called "Whiskey in the Jar." It's traditional Irish fol. . ." 

That was all Jim needed to hear. Making an abrupt U-turn, he headed towards Rainier University. 

* * *

Sitting in the tiny room that doubled as the station's control room and studio, professor Blair Sandburg had been in full and splendid auto-teaching mode about his favorite subject. Sentinels. He'd been doing the World Music show for about 3 months now, and the highlight of his day was still slipping a Chopec piece in now and again. 

Although his show was now over and he sat in the station's tiny break room, his mind was still on his elusive dissertation subject. Even if he'd been one himself, it's unlikely he'd have noticed the door opening behind him. 

* * *

Jim started to open the door to what looked to him like the station's break room but he stopped, hesitant. What was he going to say to this guy? "Hi, I think I'm a Sentinel, nice to meet you." Yeah, sure. _This_ , Jim was thinking, _is a stupid idea._ He should leave now before anyone noticed him. 

Besides, he was feeling fine now--despite being dead tired--and sleep would probably be better for him than a conversation with a neo-hippie-witch-doctor-punk like this Sandburg guy. It was probably a crock of crap he fed to the academics to keep himself in grant money. Sure. That was it--just a coincidence. Now, if he could just shut the door without being noticed. . .

Making a conscious effort to listen to the room's sole occupant, Ellison shut the door quietly behind him.

* * * 

Gripping his head, eyes clenched shut in agony, Jim collapsed to the floor outside the break room. The echoing report of what sounded like several gunshots still rang through the station, searing into Jim's brain with every echoing pulse. 

The door to the room flew open, and a broad-shouldered, long-haired man came rushing out, eyes wide with alarm. He almost tripped over Jim, righted himself and dropped to his knees next to the detective who was now curled into a protective fetal ball.

"Oh god. Man. Oh shit--are you hurt? Have you been shot?" Blair tried to uncurl the fallen man enough to check for injuries. "Should I call an ambulance?" 

Jim tried to tell him he wasn't injured--at least, not in the way this guy thought he was--but the pain in his head was too great. 

"Loud. . . "

"What? What did you say?" Blair leaned closer to Jim, tilting his head so his ear was inches from Jim's mouth. 

"Loud," Jim breathed, barely above a whisper. "Too loud." He whimpered a bit at the sound of his own voice. "Head. . .hurts."

For just a second., Blair's eyes grew wide as the man's words clicked. He didn't look like any of the people Blair had interviewed, but that was beside the point. He had to help this man, somehow. And talking--Blair's forte--wasn't going to do it. Aware that he was about to invade a stranger's personal space, Blair whispered what he considered a necessary warning. 

"I'm going to touch your neck and shoulders now, okay? It shouldn't hurt at all, but if it does, tell me." 

Without waiting for a response, Blair began a gentle kneading of the man's shoulders and neck. The tendons were taut and he could see the man's pulse hammering in the side of his throat. After a minute, Blair noticed a lessening of tension in the haggard face.

"Are you feeling any better," he whispered, hoping he didn't undo any good he'd managed to accomplish.

"Yeah," came the breathy reply. 

"Oh, thank god." Blair sat back and began gesturing around the room with both hands. "All this. . . well. . . whatever happened must have been too much for you. Have you ever. . .?"

Blair was cut short when the quiet voice caught his attention. 

"Don't stop. Please?"

Shaking his head a bit at the simple honesty of the request, Blair resumed massaging the man's neck, digging his thumbs carefully into the areas around shoulder blades and spine.

"No problem, big guy, no problem. What's your name, anyway? I'm Blair Sandburg. I'm a grad student, but I teach some basic Anthro courses when they need me. You?"

"James Ellison. Jim. Cop. Cascade PD." The answers came slowly, but the voice was gaining strength.

"Think you're ready to try sitting up, Jim? My office is a couple buildings down, and I have a couch there. Nothing fancy, but you can crash there for a while if you need to."

Jim had relaxed so he was lying on his side, one hand partially covering his face and ear. He pushed himself to a sitting position with Blair's help, resting his head against the wall.

"Professor Sandburg? Are you okay?" A young man burst in, a security guard behind him, and stared at Jim in alarm. 

The security guard, whose nametag read "Carl," turned to Blair. "I came up to tell you we have to close the building until the inspector can get in here and okay it for occupation." The guard looked Jim up and down appraisingly. "Is he hurt? Someone set some fireworks off in the ventilation system, but we didn't think there would be any injuries."

"Yeah, he's okay." Blair smiled reassuringly. "Just a migraine. I guess the noise from the fireworks was too much for him."

The guard looked at Jim's pale, sweat-sheened face dubiously. "He a friend of yours? He doesn't look so good. Maybe we should call an ambulance, just to. . . "

Jim grasped Blair's forearm with a surprisingly tight grip. 

"No hospital." 

Blair and the guard exchanged glances. 

"Please." Jim's bloodshot blue eyes met Blair's own, pleading. "I'll be fine."

Blair managed to persuade the guard that Jim was well enough to go back to Hargrove Hall, to Blair's office. The student, a nervous sophomore named Wayne who worked in the station, helped Blair shut down the station's equipment. He went with them as far as Blair's building, then headed off to his dorm.

After Jim was settled on the couch in his office, Blair sat on the floor next to him and asked, for the hundredth time, "How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Some water, maybe? How about some Ty. . ."

"Look, I don't need anything." 

Now that he was feeling better, Jim was getting embarrassed. It wasn't every day he got neck massages from strange, longhaired men. Hell, he tried to avoid any human contact at all because everything irritated him these days. 

But Jim had to admit, this guy was different. 

While his energy levels were too high for Jim's comfort, all the other things that usually drove Jim nuts about his coworkers and fellow humans just weren't there. He smelled like an herb shop, sure, but it wasn't overpowering or chemically. His voice wasn't grating, whiny, shrill or nasal. His breath--unlike many people, Jim noted gratefully--didn't make Jim's eyes water. And his touch--usually the most disconcerting thing of all to ex-Ranger Jim Ellison--his touch didn't feel like sandpaper or a dead fish. Every time Blair touched him--and he’d been touching him a *lot*--Jim found himself fighting back tears. Jim knew himself pretty well, and he was quite certain that he wasn't gay. And Sandburg sure wasn't, if all the babbling about various girlfriends was for real. So why was he being affected this way? Jim shook his head and sighed. The whole thing just sucked. 

Blair was watching him again, a contemplative expression warring with curious, childish glee. 

"So." He was trying to sound casual and almost succeeding, but Jim detected the telltale increase in Blair's heart rate. "What brought you to the station today, Jim?" 

The kid was gazing at him expectantly.

Jim's hands shifted uncomfortably on his thighs. He wasn't sure what to say, but something told him that lying was out of the question.

"I was listening to the radio."

Blair waited patiently for Jim to elaborate.

Well, a little white lie wouldn't hurt. "I. . . I was flipping channels and I heard you mention the Chopec, and Peru." 

Blair perked up, scooting a bit closer to Jim and placing a hand on Jim's arm, just above the shoulder. Through an Herculean act of willpower, he managed to remain silent while Jim decided how to proceed.

"I was in the Army. The Rangers," he finally supplied. "My unit's plane went down in Peru. None of the others made it. I did what I could--everything I could--but none of them. . ."

Blair detected the slight hitch in Jim's breathing. Wordlessly, he squeezed Jim's arm where his hand had been resting. He didn't let go. 

The gentle, comforting pressure on his arm was an anchor, and Jim clung to it while he continued his story.

"I couldn't save them. I was injured, but not as badly. I guess I'd been wandering around for awhile when I found the Chopec. Or they found me. They'd been watching me, assessing me for threat. I guess they figured I was harmless. Or helpless, because they approached me one night and led me to their village. Their shaman, Incacha, took me under his wing, and after awhile, it was like I'd never lived anywhere else."

Jim paused, fiddling idly with the trin on the battered sofa.

"I guess he knew about me, somehow. Incacha."

"What did he know, Jim?"

"About my senses. How they were changing. It started after the crash. . ."

As Jim continued to talk, he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Blair rose and sat beside him, occasionally asking a question and making encouraging sounds.

"So what it all comes down to is, I came to the station thinking maybe. . . Maybe you could help me." He still looked dejected, but hope now colored his tone.

Blair smiled at his new friend. "Of course I can, Jim. Don't you know your Guide when you see him?"

-End-

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The guys and their little world are the creations of PetFly. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. No Guides were harmed in the writing of this fic.


End file.
